


Tribute

by Sarcastic_Metaphor



Category: God of War
Genre: Atreus loves his dad, Kratos doesn't die in this fic but he is gone, Modern Era, Not Beta Read, bittersweet feels, god of war spoilers, more like Atreus is immortal and lives in present day, not exactly an au, not exactly canon compliant, sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-16 18:30:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14816612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarcastic_Metaphor/pseuds/Sarcastic_Metaphor
Summary: The modern world sees Kratos only as a vengeful monster that haunted Greek mythology, but Atreus knows better.





	Tribute

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So I wrote another modern God of War fic before but these are two entirely separate stories. This fic involves Atreus living in modern day and dealing with some heavy emotions he has for his dad, who he knows did some awful stuff but was still a good father. (And Kratos is unfortunately deceased in this story.)

Atreus stared up at the statue, breath caught in his throat. The statue was thousands of years old, immeasurably valuable after the supposedly-mysterious series of disasters that destroyed of most of Ancient Greece. 

Atreus felt heavy ball of both grief and anger lodge in his chest. Around him, the museum buzzed quietly with activity. People came and went, but Atreus was rooted to the spot. 

The statue was of a man, younger than his father and without his beard, but unmistakably him. The blades and the chains wrapped around his arms were too familiar, even after the real weapons themselves had long since been lost. 

**“Tribute to the Ghost of Sparta”**

Atreus felt his fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to destroy this statue, crumble it until it was nothing but dust. 

The  _ Ghost of Sparta  _ was not the name his father would’ve wanted to be remembered by. 

His father was calloused and stern, unyielding and strong. But he was also kind, kinder than any legend would believe, when Atreus needed him to be. His father once truly did love him. And yet, thousands of years later, he was still being remembered as a warmongering monster. A god only prayed to out of fear. 

It was disgusting.

Atreus turned and left the brutal statue behind, intent on spending the rest of his day at the museum in relative good spirits. When he was younger, only a few hundred years old, it was bizzare to see things he once used in his everyday life treated as artifacts. 

Now that he was older now, at least a few thousand years or so by now, Atreus came to appreciate them. He took on the appearance of a young adult these days. He was taller than most others and he took to growing his hair out a bit, but Atreus thought that overall, he blended in well with the twenty-first century. With the exception of the small braid his wore in his hair to remind him of his original life. 

Back in those days, Atreus was a powerful being, claiming the name Loki and fighting the Aesir’s forces. But that time was as long forgotten as his father’s was. 

Nowadays, mortals call him Anders, not knowing that a god walks among them. But in his heart, he will always be Atreus. 

He walked slowly from room to room, recognizing most things and yet being surprised by others. 

Before leaving, Atreus found a room dedicated to artifacts from Scandinavia and hesitated before walking inside. Realistically, there should be nothing of interest here. And as he moved from display case to display case, Atreus saw nothing he didn’t recognize. These were tools and weapons he once used on a daily basis. Instead of a sense of sadness, there was only the sensation of longing for a home that didn’t exist anymore. 

There was a tall display at the back of the room, something Atreus neglected because of how crowded the area was. But then, there was an opening in the mass of people and a glint of metal caught Atreus’s eye. 

He made his way over slowly, curiosity getting the better of him. Eventually, Atreus found himself in front of the glass display, where a variety of rusting and warped weapons were visible for the world to once again experience. There was a cracked, rotting wooden shield with painfully faded paint, and a sword with Brok and Sindri’s symbol barely visible through the tarnish.

Atreus wanted to laugh, a bitter sense of knowing welling up in his chest. If only the museum curators truly knew how valuable the artifacts in their possession were, how anything made by the Dwarven brothers surely still held magic within it. Atreus wanted to reach out and touch the glass, despite the many signs asking him not to. He wanted to grip a smoothly carved bow and trace his fingers over the arrows he once made himself. He wanted to return to a time of dragons and magic. Atreus wanted to go back to the days of hunting deer with his mother and fighting dragons and gods with his father. 

He wanted his family back. 

Atreus wasn’t sure how long he stood there, lost in thought, until he felt wet little beads well up in the corners of his eyes. Quickly, he wiped his eyes and turned away from the display.

The world suddenly bent around him, people unwittingly diverting their attention as Atreus vanished from sight. A trick he learned from the Dwarfs. 

The bright lights of the museum suddenly turned into a darker, more rustic room with walls and floors of well-worn wood. The only light came from the windows, filtering weakly through the burgundy curtains. Atreus made his way through his home slowly as to not make himself dizzy. The jump from the historical museum to his isolated cabin was a long one, and he still wasn’t entirely used to it. There was a fireplace built into one wall and a fire burst to life as Atreus approached. 

He sank down into the soft chair besides the fireplace and slumped forward with his elbows on his knees. If Atreus closed his eyes and focused only on the warmth and sound of hearty flames, he could almost imagine it was his father, surrounded by his immense aura and setting thorny brambles ablaze. He took a deep breath slowly once, twice, working toward clearing his head from fatigue. 

Once he was no longer lightheaded, Atreus slowly pushed himself to his feet and left the fireplace behind him. He walked down the hall, lights flickering on above his head. Atreus reached the door at the end of the hall and pushed it open, listening to the comforting creak of his bedroom door. This room was brighter than the rest of the house, with tall windows that let him look out into the snow wilderness and mountains beyond his home. 

Atreus knelt beside his bed and pried open the one loose floorboard, reminiscent of the hidden space beneath his childhood home. He felt around the hole until his grasped the familiar soft fabric. He carefully pulled the wrapped package from underneath the floor and sat on the bed. Atreus carefully unfolded the worn, red fabric and unveiled the only treasure he still had from his childhood. 

The dulled and tarnished blade of the Leviathan axe, separated from the handle that had long since rotted away, was wielded first by his mother, then by his father, and then at one point by himself. But to Atreus, this weapon never truly his own. It was tied to such precious memories of both his parents. 

He had little fear of hurting himself as he held the axe head close. Atreus closed his eyes and pressed the flat side of his parents’ weapon to his forehead, feeling the cool metal that still weakly radiated with magic. 

His breathing became more labored. 

Atreus didn’t want to open his eyes, preferring to draw up the old, bittersweet memories of his past. He remembered a mother who used the axe to cut down both monsters and tinder for their home. 

But he also recalled a father who used the axe to cut down endless enemies. A father who wielded this axe to cut down a pantheon of arrogant gods. A father who used this weapon to save his life too many times. And Atreus recalled a father who chose to pass down this weapon to him upon his death, instead of those chained blades. 

_ That _ was the man Atreus would always remember.    
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by an HC I posted on tumblr here: http://sarcastic-metaphor.tumblr.com/post/174112805524/imagine-atreus-surviving-ragnarok-and-living-in
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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